Favors
by Anna-Salem
Summary: Prior to the Colonel's fateful visit to the LaPadite farm, he and Charlotte meet one beautiful day in Nancy. How will she keep her family's secrets?
1. Chapter 1

Sunlight splashed upon her face, and a light breeze lifted away the thin sheen of sweat from her skin. Charlotte pedaled a bit faster. Though she had left well before dawn, the morning was catching up.

She glanced back at the baskets attached to either side of her bicycle, each containing six glass bottles of fresh white milk, and stoppered with cork. The front handlebar basket contained two crocks of butter that her sister Julie had churned just that morning. Everything looked in order; her careless peddling over the rough terrain had done nothing to upset the precious bottles.

Today was Charlotte's turn to deliver milk to the _épicerie générale_ in Nancy. While the trip was not long, she liked to arrive early, ahead of the morning bustle and before the soldiers started their morning patrol.

The soldiers made her nervous. She knew far too many secrets, yet did not trust herself to keep them. Though she felt that her father was doing the right thing, Charlotte was neither an actress nor a good liar. Her sister told her she had a face that read like a children's book.

Yet her father insisted that they keep their usual routine so as not to draw attention to themselves. Charlotte and her sisters had been taking turns running their extra milk to town ever since they were old enough to sit astride a bicycle. The milk allowed them to purchase extra flour and other staples, as well as to take a break from tiresome country living one or two days out of the week. Their father made the big deliveries in his milk truck, but there was always plenty left over. And now that the LaPadite family had a few extra guests, they needed all of the income they could salvage.

Before the German invasion, Charlotte had enjoyed going to town. Now, each outing made her blood run cold, and she could not peddle away fast enough. Though her father sometimes worried for his daughters' safety, he knew that preventing them from going into town would look suspicious. Thankfully, the day would be warm with a slight breeze to cool her, and she could enjoy the time to herself.

The dirt road soon became gravel, and then the stout brick of Nancy. When she reached town, she always walked her bicycle along the sidewalk, so as not to disturb any of the town cars or pedestrians that were starting to trickle outside for the day. LeSalle's Generale was located down a long stretch of shops and merchants, quiet but steady in business. Monsieur LeSalle was an old family friend who had known her father when he was just a boy. Charlotte leaned her bicycle against the side of the shop in a tiny adjacent alley and picked up the handles on her milk baskets, the crocks of butter under each arm.

"Ah, bonjour Charlotte," the old shopkeeper greeted her as she entered. She smiled shyly at him. She was not a chatty person by nature, but Monsieur LeSalle was always very kind to her. "What did you bring me today?"

Charlotte knew that the old man did their family a favor by bartering with them. By all rights he should just pay her what the milk was worth and send her on her way. Instead, he always had two sacks of flour, one for each basket on her bicycle, and a small bag of sugar waiting for her, no matter how much or how little milk she brought him. They were no doubt worth much more than her small bottles, especially now that the war was upon them.

She smiled at him from under long eyelashes, carefully setting her baskets onto the countertop, "Twelve bottles, monsieur. Daisy has been very generous this week." Daisy was their oldest milk cow, and the one they relied on the least. However, since spring, she had been producing an abundance of milk that surprised even her father, who had been milking that old cow for years.

"C'est marvelous, Charlotte my dear," the shopkeeper emptied the baskets into an icebox under the counter. "And are those two crocks of your sister's fresh butter?"

She nodded, handing over the two small crocks. The girls brought butter very infrequently these days, as they had much more use for it at home. However, they liked to keep up appearances, so Julie would churn the butter with a bit of beef fat to make it go further. No one ever noticed, or if they did they were too polite to say.

Monsieur LeSalle handed over the bags of flour and sugar, and she loaded them into the baskets. Before she had a chance to leave however, the kindly shopkeeper took her lightly by the arm, pretending to show her something behind the counter.

"Mademoiselle LaPadite, you know I adore your family," he tucked a note and a small leather satchel into her palm, "The note is for your father. The satchel is for you and your dear sisters. Since the Germans have taken over, my business has flourished. I have no family or daughters of my own on which to lavish my affections. Enjoy yourself, but please, stay safe."

Charlotte smiled and thanked him. She tucked the note and satchel into the front pocket of her plain muslin dress, and left the store quietly, as it was beginning to fill with patrons. Carrying the baskets out to the alley, she re-attached them to her bicycle, and placed the small bag of sugar into the handlebar basket. The ride home would be a bit heavier, but it was well worth it.

She took a moment to retrieve the satchel from her pocket. Inside, she found a three pieces of taffy, a length of black hair ribbon, a tiny bottle of what must have been expensive perfume, a paper wrapped soap that smelled of lilacs, and three francs. Tears welled up in her eyes. The trinkets were so beautiful that she briefly considered running back into the shop to hug the old man for his generosity. Before she could do so, however, she found herself staring into the face of a German soldier. Two more emerged from the sidewalk, blocking her way out of the alley.

"Können Sie Deutsch," the first soldier barked in his strange language. Charlotte could not. She looked down at the bricks beneath her feet and shook her head, hands behind her back. Hopefully, they had not noticed the beautiful satchel.

The soldier apparently did not speak French either. He turned to the hard-faced soldier to his left, who was quick to ask her what business she had. It was obvious, from her poor style of dress, that she did not belong in the city. Charlotte's voice caught in her throat. She could not find the words to answer them. The first soldier, noticing her distress, stepped toward her, palm up, as if demanding what she was hiding behind her back. Charlotte backed away further into the alley, nearly tripping over her own feet in fear. The French speaking soldier laughed at her.

"Look at her, like a frightened deer," he neared her, "Are you a thief? Did you steal those bags of flour? Where is your ration book?" The questions came one after another roughly, his French falling artlessly from thin lips.

"And what is all this commotion?" A voice called melodiously from the entrance. She could not see over the tall German soldiers, but she just knew, from the perfect enunciation, that it was a French citizen. The soldiers froze as if crippled by fear, and spun quickly on their heels. They spoke in German, and their words sounded like apologies. They moved aside, allowing her to get a glimpse of her rescuer. Charlotte's stomach dropped.

He wore the regalia of a Nazi official, medals clinking and swaying against his long regulation leather jacket. The man was, to her surprise, rather short. He was perhaps a few years older than her father and had a plain face with a friendly crooked smile. Blonde hair peeked out from underneath a grey hat emblazoned with the war eagle, which he respectfully removed to address her in near-perfect French.

"Mademoiselle," he stepped toward her, though his manner was considerably less threatening than that of his troops, "Allow me to apologize on behalf of these dunderheads." He turned to them and made a motion as if to say _shoo_. They fled. "I am very sorry if they frightened you." The Nazi official, she normally could not tell one from another but somehow knew this one was important, held out his hand.

Charlotte knew that she was caught. She offered him the satchel, filled with things that would not matter to anyone who was not as poor as she, and looked away. The Nazi looked at the satchel and let out a small giggle.

"My dear, I only meant to introduce myself," he took her hand and turned it over, placing a kiss upon it, "Colonel Hans Landa, at your service, Mademoiselle." She felt her heart flutter helplessly in her chest, half out of terror, and half out of complete mortification. "Should I be concerned by what is in your bag? After all, it smells of soap, and a pretty girl like you should have all of the sweet smelling things her little heart desires."

She could not help but blush. No one ever spoke to her that way, and this man's words were certainly charming. Yet, her heart threatened to burst from her chest as each second passed in his presence. All she could see were the faces of the Dreyfusses staring back at her, their eyes wide with panic.

"Your name, Mademoiselle?"

He must have asked her before and she hadn't heard him. She coughed lightly, "Charlotte."

"That is a lovely name, Charlotte, but I doubt that is all you are called," he teased her.

"LaPadite," she squeaked, hating how frightened she sounded, like a mouse, "My family are dairy farmers just south in the country."

There was a glimmer of something in the Colonel's eyes that looked vaguely like recognition. Did he know her already?

"Ah, I see. Your family trades milk for extra rations. Very practical, but frowned upon I'm afraid." His eyes darkened briefly, before his crooked smile returned. "Mademoiselle LaPadite, allow me to accompany you around town this morning. It is not so safe for a beautiful girl such as you to travel without an escort."

"Monsieur…Colonel," she bumbled, unsure of how to address this man, "My business is done for the day. I should be getting home."

He waved away her protests, "Nonsense. I have a car. Your bicycle will fit perfectly in the back. Allow me to accompany you on a tour of the city. I am sure you can show me a few things of interest."

It had come down to this moment. If she denied, she would look suspicious. After all, he was a Nazi Colonel, and to deny him would give him cause to arrest her, or worse yet, search her home. But to accept his offer and spend the day with him was a whole other set of complications. Men of his status did not escort poor young girls without some less than wholesome intentions in mind. Charlotte swallowed, trying to will her throat to make noise.

"Oui, Monsiuer."


	2. Chapter 2

The Colonel replaced his hat and offered the stunned girl his arm. She felt as if a sudden breeze might blow her over.

"But Colonel," she managed, "My bicycle…"

He glanced at the bicycle, and she was suddenly reminded of the offending bags of flour. Charlotte secretly wished she could jump on the bicycle and peddle away as fast as her legs could carry her. But she had not come all of this way to simply leave her bike in an alley and allow her family's flour to be stolen, not when they needed it so dearly.

"Ah yes," he said, as if barely remembering that it was there at all, "bring it along. We'll put it in my car."

Charlotte thanked him, and walked the bicycle out of the shaded alley. She might have looked strange walking beside the well-dressed officer in her nearly ragged yellow dress and drab cardigan, but at least she did not have to walk arm in arm with him. Let people talk.

However, there was a little voice in the back of her head that wondered whether he was purely interested in helping her. After all, he had not looked her up and down as the other soldiers had done, had not made insinuating remarks about her. In fact, he had not acted in any inappropriate way, and appeared genuinely concerned for her safety. Charlotte could not help but wonder if he was simply toying with her, or cared for her well being. Then she remembered that he was a Nazi. He cared for nothing and no one.

"You are from a family of dairy farmers you say?"

Charlotte nodded, but realized she should probably speak, "Oui, Monsieur."

"How many of you are there?"

She took a moment before answering, not wanting to seem too quick, "Myself, my two sisters Julie and Suzanne, and my father. My mother died when I was three."

"I am sorry to hear that," he turned to her briefly. Only then did she notice him looking at her, as if trying to discern something, but not quite grasping an answer. His gaze was intense, but did not make her feel uncomfortable in the way that most men's gaze did. It felt more like the gaze of her father when he knew she was up to no good. Her round cheeks burned under his scrutiny.

And like that, his questions turned away from her and to the city of Nancy. They spoke a bit about the town. She rarely visited for her own enjoyment anymore, but she spoke highly of the architecture and the library. Considering her limited knowledge of both subjects, she must have sounded, at best, like an uncultured wretch, and at worst like a babbling idiot. The Colonel merely listened to her, throwing in a few polite nods here and there, that strange half-smile on his face, a quirk of humor in his amber-colored eyes.

"While I do enjoy the occasional bit of literature, I am afraid that my tastes lie in cuisine. Tell me, Mademoiselle, where in this delightful town can a man find a satisfying meal?"

He directed her to a long town car occupied by a soldier acting as his drive. Two red Nazi flags stood proudly at either side of the car. She felt sick.

"Hermann, if you would be so kind as to place this young lady's bicycle in the back seat and keep an eye on it for her?" The young man hopped up and gave the Colonel a salute before doing as he was asked. "Now then, lunch?"

Charlotte glanced down at her shabby dress and worn shoes quickly, trying to think of a restaurant where she would not stick out like a peasant with the plague. For a rather small city, Nancy had its fill of snobs. The Colonel picked up on her discomfort immediately; nothing, it seemed, escaped him.

"Why, my dear, I think we'll have to find you something to wear for dinner," he offered her his arm once again, "and there will be no protests."

Charlotte looked once at Hermann, who only shrugged. Her cheeks were burning very brightly now, and her mind was filled with glorious plans for her escape from this terrible situation. However much she wanted to run away, she had to admit the Colonel was being very polite to her. The least she could do was pretend she didn't feel as though her life was in jeopardy.

"I believe there is a charming dress shop just around the corner," he guided her as if he were the one who had lived here his entire life. "Run by a Madame Chevalis, if I recall. Perhaps she'll have something for you there."

They strolled arm in arm, like old friends or an uncle and his niece. Charlotte glanced up at him occasionally, attempting to give the older man the impression that she was becoming smitten. Hopefully gratitude and not fear was written in her big, bright eyes.

The Dress Form, Madame Chevalis' dress shop on Rue-De-Roche, was a fairly recent establishment that had cropped up in the last six months. A purple awning featured white scrolling letters and curlicues welcoming potential patrons. Charlotte had never heard of the woman, but apparently she had waltzed in with her dead husband's money and had opened the shop to appeal to the fashionable French women and Nazi sympathizers in Nancy. Her business was doing quite well, according to the Colonel.

Inside the shop, Charlotte was dazzled by the richness of the front room. Purple was everywhere. The walls were a deep shade, and the floor looked as though it were made of grape jam with light pink accents. A longhaired white cat sat haughtily on a plum pillow, cleaning its face with a fluffy paw. She almost laughed at the absurdity of the place.

"Bonjour!" A boisterous voice called to them as they entered, "Welcome to my humble establishment." Madame Chevalis was in her fifties, with dyed-black hair and a round, overly powdered face. Bright red lipstick made her thin lips appear larger, and a black beauty mark was drawn onto her left cheek. She made a line straight to the Colonel, her lips curving into a faux-seductive smile.

"Colonel Landa, you handsome beast. You know my books are clean, you checked them yourself. What brings you by today?"

The Colonel grasped the plump woman's hand and placed a dramatic kiss upon it, "Madame Chevalis, were it not for other pressing matters, I would say that I was here to enjoy the pleasure of your company."

Seemingly out of nowhere, the woman produced a peacock feather fan.

"Oh my, Hans you charmer." As if noticing Charlotte for the first time she added, "And who is this little thing?"

Charlotte looked up at her shyly, "Je m'appele Charlotte, Madame."

Madame Chevalis looked her over, then back at the Colonel with a playful grin, "Oh Hans, you do recognize a diamond in the rough when you see one, don't you? Elle est tres jolie."

He merely smiled, "We are going to sample Nancy's finest cuisine this evening, Madame Chevalis. Could you please assist the Mademoiselle in selecting appropriate dining attire?"

"But of course," the buxom woman took a blushing Charlotte by the hand and led her into an adjoining room. Mirrors lined the four walls, and there were racks of clothing everywhere. It did not appear that Madame Chevalis was a dressmaker, but rather that she imported her clothing from Paris. She was wearing a crème silk day dress that skirted her knee smartly, with a gigantic pearl hat and feathers. If she were less of a woman, in both size and personality, the outfit would have engulfed her. Charlotte dreaded what concoction the woman would produce for her to wear.

"You are a lucky girl," Madame Chevalis' voice was low, conspiratorial. "Arms up," she commanded loudly, running a measuring tape across her bust and returning to her darkened tone. "I have seen other less fortunate girls come in here with much fatter and much older Nazi escorts. At least the Colonel is charming."

She measured her waist, leaning in to whisper in her ear, "But Landa is not quite the nice man he would have you believe, Charlotte. You would do well to make him happy." They locked eyes briefly, and she could see the look of warning in the older woman's eyes. Charlotte nodded, hopefully expressing her thanks.

"You have an enviable figure under all that muslin, young lady," She exclaimed, again raising her voice to reach Landa in the next room. "Have a seat, and I will return with a few pieces I think will be lovely on you."

As the shopkeeper bustled off to scour the racks, Charlotte surreptitiously glanced at the mirror to her left. It showed her a view of the next room, where she watched Colonel Landa sitting on a purple chaise, smoking a German cigarette and trying to get the attention of Madame Chevalis' snooty cat. He noticed her staring at him and flashed one of his disarming grins. She colored and turned away.

Madame Chevalis returned with not one dress but a rack full. "Now, I don't expect you to try on all of these. Be a dear and point to the dresses that you like, and we'll start from there."

Charlotte looked at the rack of expensive clothing in wonder. She had never seen so many gorgeous dresses in such delicious fabrics and colors. It was if she had wandered straight onto the runways of Paris.

"Well," she said, timidly pointing to all of the light blue dresses, "I do like this color."

Madame Chevalis pulled out all of the dresses in the color Charlotte indicated, and stuck them to the front of the rack, pushing back all of the rest. "You are so pale, and with that red hair you will look marvelous. What style would you like? Something flashy?" She pulled out a satin dress that was cut well above the knee, with a revealing bust line that Charlotte couldn't help but widen her eyes at. "No? Something more demure, then."

Charlotte watched as she retrieved a wool suit in her favorite sky blue trimmed in black ribbon, with polished obsidian buttons along the right shoulder, and short sleeves. It was cinched at the waist with a thin black belt; form-fitting without being obscene.

"I can tell you like this one. Let's try this on, shall we?"


	3. Chapter 3

Charlotte carefully took the delicate zipper between her fingers and secured the dress. She admired how it zipped up the side, hugging her waist. She carefully fastened the skinny black belt and took a deep breath, before turning to look in the mirror.

The sight nearly took her breath away. Madame Chevalis had given her a set of beautiful Parisian undergarments to wear with the dress, some shimmery white stockings, and a pair of wrist-length black satin gloves. The dress fit very snuggly, reminding Charlotte that she was young, but by many accounts a woman. It fell to just above her knee, trimmed in black, with a satin slip underneath. The shoulders of the dress were very rigid, which the Madame had assured her was most fashionable. Charlotte had no choice but to take the woman's word for it.

Timidly stepping out of the dressing room, she was greeted by Madame Chevalis in a loud voice, "Mon mot! Don't you look lovely, little Charlotte LaPadite. But we really must do something about that hair, I'm afraid."

Charlotte tucked a strand behind her ear, realizing how wind-blown she must have looked to the supremely well put together shopkeeper. The older woman guided her to a vanity table and sat her down. She took a brush from the tabletop, released the girl's hair from its sloppy constraints, and began to stroke it over and over.

"You know, my dear, you really do look lovely. The dress fits you like a dream," she stopped brushing for a moment, as if considering something, "You know, once this all blows over, I am sure you could come and work for me in the shop. I have use for a day model, and you could help me with some light tasks? I am not as young and nimble as I once was, I fear," she spoke very calmly as she resumed brushing. Charlotte began to wonder if the older woman was, in fact, quite lonely.

"That would be," she faltered, unsure of how to answer the woman, "wonderful."

"Very good, mon cher. We ladies have to stick together. France will come through this, you'll see. And you will be fine."

Madame Chevalis was attempting to bolster her confidence, though for what reason Charlotte was not quite sure. But it made her very nervous.

"Ah, I think that shall do," Madame Chevalis declared. She had brushed the girl's hair to a shine. Picking up two elaborate onyx combs, she pulled Charlotte's copper hair back from her face into a tight updo, and secured the combs into place. Tiny curls escaped at the nape of her neck and around her face, but the Madame thought them quite attractive. She lightly powdered the girl's face, added a touch of rouge to her lips and cheeks, and declared her a success.

"Take these," she handed over a pair of black kitten heels, "Now, go stand over there and take a look at yourself."

Charlotte slipped her feet into the shoes and stood, thankful that they weren't too high. She was not very used to walking in heels aside from those that she shared with her sister Suzanne on very special occasions. Those had belonged to her mother. She walked steadily over to the room of mirrors and took a long look.

She barely recognized the person staring back at her. The sky blue dress accented the milky whiteness of her skin, made her eyes appear even bluer, and brought out the red in her hair. For the first and only time in her life, Charlotte felt like a lady. Thankfully her rough farmer's hands were covered in the satin gloves, or else she might have been given away.

"This is the final touch," Madame Chevalis appeared behind her with a fortunately small round cap in the same blue as her dress. It was trimmed with black ribbon, and had a short black veil. "For that extra air of sophistication. You look like you've come straight from Paris, mon cher."

She turned the girl toward her, hands place on her shoulders, "Now, remember this. You wear the gloves and the hat outside. As soon as you enter the restaurant, remove your hat. Be mindful not to upset the combs. When you reach the table, remove your gloves and place them into your purse. Ah yes, a purse!" She flurried off and returned quickly with a small black purse, "As I was saying, place your gloves in this. An attendant will arrive at your table to take your hat and purse. The Colonel will tip him, and then you can begin dinner."

Charlotte gazed at the woman, "Madame, I cannot thank you enough for your assistance."

"She has done a fine job, hasn't she?" His silky voice appeared out of nowhere. In fact, Charlotte had almost forgotten that Colonel Landa was even there. She turned toward him, a bit embarrassed that she was the same height as he with heels on. He didn't seem to mind. Instead, he was focused on every detail of her appearance, tracing a finger over the polished black buttons of her shoulder, down the black trimming along her waist, and even inspecting the hem of her dress. Had he been anyone else, she may have just slapped him. "Very fine work, Madame. I believe she just might do."

"Very fine work, and very costly, my dear Colonel," the woman's coquettish, brassy voice had returned, "I should say, for the dress, the shoes, the purse, the hat, the stockings, and all, she is worth a quite a bit."

"And well worth it, I should say," the Colonel handed over several folded Reichsmarks. Charlotte's blue eyes widened. She could not be sure of the value of the banknotes, but it looked to be a lot of money. Suddenly, she felt very ill.

"Shall we?" He grasped her wrist and swung her arm under his. "Merci, Madame Chevalis. Au revoir."

Charlotte carried her purse and a purple bag filled with her old clothes in one hand, her other wrapped loosely around the Colonel's forearm. He walked her as if walking a prized dog.

It was already late afternoon when they reached the restaurant. As soon as they walked inside, she knew that she had made a mistake. Dozens of heads turned to stare at her, all belonging to German officers. The Colonel was blasé, as if he didn't notice or didn't care. Charlotte wished she could flee.

He handed his long leather jacket off to the coat check. Beneath his coat, he wore a tailored dark grey jacket that appeared to be wool. He wore only two medals on this layer, and one she recognized as the Iron Cross awarded to German field soldiers. She thought this odd as he did not seem like a man who had ever fought a real battle in his life.

They were seated at a rather private table in the corner. Laughter and the clink of forks resumed, and she was able to breathe again. Just then she remembered to remove her hat and gloves. An attendant arrived to take her things.

"Please see to the lady's belongings," the Colonel passed him a bank note. The man certainly had money to spend, and he spared no expense. "Now then, mon cher, let's get down to business."

She was a bit put off by his formal tone, "Monsieur?"

"Why our meal, of course! What is good to eat here…ah, let me see…" he looked over the menu briefly without consulting her. When the waiter arrived, Colonel Landa was quick to order. "Commençons par Barndade de Morue, s'il vou plait. Followed by the Potage de châtaigne avec Crème Fraiche. And Chablis, I think, if you recommend it?"

The waiter nodded, and quickly set off to place their order. Charlotte and the Colonel watched each other silently for a few moments before the wine arrived. They remained quiet as the waiter poured, and Charlotte waited for the Colonel's approval before tasting it herself. It was quite dry, but slightly fruity so it suited her tastes. She did not normally care for white wines, but then again she had never had one this fine.

"Charlotte LaPadite," he said her name as if she were an old friend he had not seen in a very long time, "You are a beautiful woman. I do not say that to make you blush, though I should say that only adds to your beauty." He took another sip of wine, exclaiming, "Ahh, bravo. Now where was I, oh yes, exalting the loveliness of my companion."

Colonel Landa placed his wine glass onto the stark white tablecloth and gave her another good look over. There was that look again, as if he were trying to piece something together and she was the key to solving the puzzle. It frightened her a bit, but mostly just confused her.

"You are wearing the perfume that old shopkeeper LeSalle gave you. It smells delectable on you, mon cher. Tell me, how long have you known Monsieur LeSalle?" While the question sounded light as it danced from his lips, she knew that he was interrogating her. She only wondered why.

"Why, my whole life, Herr Colonel. He has been a friend to my family since my father was just a boy."

"A pleasant old man, isn't he. I should say that he treats your family well. Considering there is plenty of milk to go around in French cow country and not much sugar or flour, he truly does the LaPadite farm a few favors," he paused as the waiter set before them their plates of Brandade de Morue. "Please, mon cher, tell me how it tastes? I am afraid you are more familiar with French cuisine than I."

She knew from his adept ordering that this was untrue. Still, she had not eaten, and the pureed cod smelled delicious. Breaking off a piece of crusty baguette from the bread basket, she used her knife to lightly slather on a bit. It was silky and salty and heaven. Her grandmother had made this recipe years ago when the LaPadite clan had gotten together to celebrate a cousin's wedding, but even that did not compare to the pure elegance of the flavors in her mouth.

"Exquisite," she breathed, more to herself than anything. Landa heard her, nonetheless.

"So glad to hear it," he took a large bite and chewed sloppily. For such a refined man, he really did have horrendous table manners. She was horrified when he began speaking with his mouth full, "Does your family do a lot of cooking, Mademoiselle?"

Charlotte could barely concentrate on his words she was so disgusted by his habit of chewing and speaking at the same time. "Ehm," she stuttered, "Well, uh, my sister Julie does most of the cooking…at our house…"

He chewed, raising an eyebrow, "Oh? And would you say she is a good cook?"

She smiled and nodded, politely taking another small bite of her food.

"This Julie, she is your older sister?"

Charlotte nodded again, trying to concentrate on keeping her fork from scraping against the plate noisily.

"Mademoiselle, we are just having a conversation. There is no need to worry your pretty head. Please, relax, enjoy some more wine," he gestured to her still full glass. She set down her knife, her hands still shaking from his too personal questions, and picked up the glass. "Now, is your older sister as pretty as you are, mon cher?"

It took a few moments for her to answer. She had always considered her sister to be gorgeous, with big dark eyes and a mane of untamable black curls, "She is very lovely, she takes after my father."

Landa scooped another bite into his mouth and continued, "How so?"

"Well," she spoke softly, "they are both very dark skinned, with enchanting eyes and black hair. I take after my mother."

This seemed to interest the Colonel, "Oh? Would you say there is Jewish blood in your ancestry?"

Charlotte recognized the trap immediately, "No, Monsieur, not that I am aware of. We are simply a hearty farming family." She smiled, hoping he was charmed by her answer. That appeared to satisfy him.

"You say she is a good cook. An admirable trait to have, even if she is dark skinned," he grinned, the white cod collecting in his cheeks. Charlotte put down her baguette, suddenly not hungry.

"Oh ho! What do I see before me? Colonel Hans Landa, you old dog," a loud, rumbling Nazi officer stood before their table; fat and bald and looking very much like a walrus. A lanky, well-dressed blond hung off his arm like some purebred canine. She was very thin and tall, dressed in a shimmering white gown with a white sable over her shoulders. It was only Tuesday afternoon; there was no need for her to dress so extravagantly. "Who is this delightful young woman dining with you?"

Charlotte smiled up at him briefly as he took her hand. She glanced over to the woman on his arm, who tried to play it cool, but was very obviously jealous. It was only then that they recognized each other. This despicable Nazi plaything was Laurel Martine, her playmate when she was very young. They had grown apart over the years, but she would recognize those droopy eyes anywhere. Laurel turned her face away, obviously embarrassed, though she had no reason to be; Charlotte was there for the very same reason.

"This, Captain Kuester, is Mademoiselle LaPadite. Say hello, Charlotte, don't be rude," he admonished the girl. She felt stung for a moment before saying _bonjour_ to the large man. He kissed her hand again, his tongue making a wet circle on her skin. She shuddered. "If you don't mind, Herr Captain, we are just about to enjoy our dinner."

The chestnut soup had arrived, and the server stood patiently waiting for the chance to place their piping hot bowls onto the table. The Captain must have gotten the message, because he turned to Laurel and said, "Angelique, it is time to go. Let's leave these lovebirds to enjoy their meal." So, she had changed to name, too. Laurel did not look at her as they departed.

The soup smelled delicious, and of course it was. Landa, much to her relief, did not slurp his soup as she feared he would. Instead, he took small sips, and spoke in between mouthfuls. Perhaps he did not want to drip the brown liquid onto his pressed wool jacket?

"Hmm, where did we leave off…" He thought back to their conversation, "Ah yes. Your no doubt lovely sister and her fine culinary skills. Tell me, does she bake bread?"

Charlotte nodded, taking a delicate sip of her divine Potage de Châtaigne, "Oui, Monsieur. Every other day."

"I bet it is good, wholesome bread, too. Does she make a few loaves at a time?"

Perhaps the wine was strong, because her head suddenly began to swim a little, "Why yes, of course."

"Hmm," he continued eating, took a sip of his wine, and resumed his line of questions, "I take it that your family is quite fond of bread, then? Or do you sell it?" He did not give her the chance to answer this question, "Because I find it very difficult to believe that a family of four, three of whom are presumably slender girls like yourself, can eat any more than four loaves of bread every few days." Her spoon paused midair, "And I also find it very difficult to believe that a family of your size requires extra rations of flour and sugar beyond the two bags that you are allotted each week."

Charlotte swallowed loudly.

"Mademoiselle LaPadite, I don't think you have been entirely truthful with me."

They were staring at each other, not eating, not speaking. Her face probably read pure terror, his only a quiet threat and an assurance that he would get what he wanted. Charlotte knew that this was a man who always got what he wanted.

Colonel Hans Landa sat back in his chair, "I am going to smoke my after-dinner cigarette while your finish your Potage de Châtaigne. We are going to request your things. Then, we are going to go for another little walk, and you will not try to run, understand?"

She nodded, her lips parted in shock.

"Good. I have a few more questions to ask you, Mademoiselle, but I will need to ask them somewhere…private," he leaned forward, the serious look melting into one of his unsettling grins. "I think I shall enjoy dessert far more than dinner."


End file.
